Fiction, poetry and musings by Gregory T. Janetka

Poetry: Dry

this man is holding me tight
and with him the yells of the 1970s
ring through my ears
and embarrass the 1950s youth I
so sought to be
40 years after the fact.

Now nothing holds sway
and everything is only a motion.
What brought pleasure brings nothing,
only the absent knowledge that
the same experiences used to bring joy.

I have not slept for days
and psychosis is creeping in
in every dark corner, just behind my eyes.

We paltry few, we not young yet
not yet old,
we hammered down souls
awash in a materialist religion,
saying prayers for an ever larger screen.

We no longer bleed when cut,
we stare into the wound,
knowing it should flow,
knowing the rich pain should
cause us to cry out,
to beat our fists,
to rage,
to spit,
to writhe and cuss.
Yet we can only look at it,
deep and dry,
and try to remember what was
and what could have been.